


At the Altar

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Body Worship, Cunnilingus, Dry Humping, Hand Jobs, Johnlockary - Freeform, Multi, Multiple Orgasms, OT3, PWP, References to Miscarriage, Sharing a Bed, Threesome - F/M/M, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex, jamlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-02
Updated: 2014-01-02
Packaged: 2018-01-07 05:18:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,901
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1115974
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Fuck,” John says, admiringly. He enjoys giving women head, but this is something else altogether. This is devotion beyond the call of duty. This is fucking worshiping at the altar of Mary Morstan.</p>
            </blockquote>





	At the Altar

**Author's Note:**

> Pure porn. No redeeming qualities.

John isn’t sure how they ended up back at Baker Street. They’d been having a nice dinner, the three of them, at Angelo’s – then Sherlock had gotten the text and Mary had gleefully waved them off with promises to get the leftovers boxed up. The two of them had hopped into a cab and were sucked into the whirlwind of the case, and John had assumed Mary had gone back to their shared flat in Highbury and that he would meet her there.

But it’s three in the morning and he’s bloody exhausted, so when Sherlock leads the way up the fourteen steps and into the flat he doesn’t really protest. He stumbles into the bathroom to wash off the blood – not his – and comes out again to make sure Sherlock is getting into bed.

Sherlock is in his room with all the lights off. The ambient light from the street filters in, turning the room a fuzzy orange-yellow that highlights the contours of his body as he strips down to his boxer-briefs. John blinks hard and looks away, and then blinks again. The bed is occupied. Mary is sound asleep in the middle of the mattress, blankets high around her ears and just a bit of blonde curl poking out the top. Now John sees the heels kicked off near the foot of the bed, and the dress and nylons draped over the back of the desk chair. There's a pair of utilitarian cotton panties thrown on top, and he wonders what she’s sleeping in.

Sherlock yanks a sleep shirt over his head and pulls back the covers, and suddenly John’s heart is in his throat.

“Sherlock!” he hisses. “What are you doing?”

Sherlock blinks owlishly at him as he settles down, a healthy couple of inches between him and John’s wife. “Going to sleep,” he murmurs. “I can hardly help it if my bed is already occupied. Get in the other side if it bothers you.”

John tries to think, but his head is wrapped in fuzz. In the end he strips to his pants and t-shirt and climbs in. Sherlock’s bed is king-sized, so there’s plenty of room, but it’s still odd to curl up next to Mary – still sound asleep – and know that somewhere on the other side of her is Sherlock, long-legged and prickly and _not really my area_.

The pillow is really very soft. John slips his arm around Mary’s waist, and she snuggles closer in her sleep. She’s wearing a dressing gown – Sherlock’s, no doubt, he can feel the patina of the thin blue silk under his fingers – and nothing underneath. John can’t decide whether he’s turned on or uncomfortable. Maybe both, but he’s too tired to suss it out tonight.

He falls asleep with Mary’s soft breaths puffing against his collarbone and the lean heat of Sherlock’s hipbone pressed up against the back of his hand.

* * *

 

He wakes up and Mary is staring at him, wide-eyed. His pulse ratchets up automatically, delivering a surge of adrenaline – but then he sees the curl of humor around her lips and realizes nothing’s wrong.

But something is definitely off. This isn’t their bed, and they aren’t alone in it. Oh god. _Sherlock_.

His best friend is spooned snugly up against his wife, sound asleep. He can hear a faint, wheezing almost-snore, but Sherlock’s face is buried in her hair and John can’t tell if it’s natural inclination or just the awkward angle. One long arm is curved around her waist just above John’s arm; the elbow is crooked up into the gape of her dressing gown so that Sherlock’s enormous hand is nestled practically between her breasts. John stares, and realizes he’s got an erection.

“Okay?” John whispers, terrified of waking him.

Mary bites her lower lip to keep from laughing. “Fine. He’s, um.”

“A limpet? Yes, I know.” John is only half-listening. The other half of him is wondering how the hell he can get out of this predicament. Nothing about this situation is okay – except maybe the way Mary’s trying so hard not to laugh her face has turned pleasantly pink, her eyes alight with mischief.

“No – well, yes, that too, but…” She trails off, and her eyes follow the line of John’s body down to where it disappears beneath the covers. There’s no way she can possibly see the incredibly obvious bulge in his boxers, not with the duvet securely over him, but a blush creeps up his neck regardless. Then Mary clears her throat and his thoughts derail as she says, “He’s got a bit of a… a morning problem, at the moment.”

John stares at her a moment before the dots connect. “Oh my god.”

“Shhh.” She finds his shoulder and squeezes it. “Don’t wake him.”

There is a low, nasally groan from the other side of the bed. John watches with a sort of fascinated horror as Sherlock’s arm tightens and his hand twitches, knuckles brushing the smooth swell of Mary’s breast. He can see an edge of pink nipple, puckered and tight, and he can hardly breathe. When he looks at Mary, solemnity has replaced the mischief. But her cheeks are still pink, and her eyes are dark and luminous in the morning light.

“Mmph.” The lump that is Sherlock shifts and settles – even closer to Mary, if possible. “Too late.”

Mary doesn’t break John’s gaze as she pets the back of Sherlock’s hand. Sherlock’s hand _practically inside of her clothes_. “Sorry, love.” It’s an instinctual pet name, not necessarily declarative, but John’s mouth runs dry anyway. “Did you sleep well?”

“Mmm.” Another shift, practically a roll of his body against Mary’s. “’s John?”

He startles to hear his name. “Right here.”

They both feel the moment when Sherlock fully wakes up. His entire body tenses, and his hand freezes where it’s cupping the warm weight of Mary’s breast. Slowly his dark mop emerges from the pillows until he’s peering over Mary’s shoulder, eyes huge and liquid and questioning into John’s.

Mary exhales, pushes back into Sherlock’s warmth and into what must be a fantastic bit of morning wood. John can see the erstwhile flutter of Sherlock’s lashes, and just like that, his decision is made.

“John?” Mary, of course, can see it on his face. He wriggles closer, close enough to feel the heat of Sherlock’s arm on his belly, and strokes her cheek.

“All right?”

She licks her lips. Nods.

John set his mouth to her ear. “Push back.”

The look on Sherlock’s face is gorgeous – shock, wonderment, befuddlement. Warm desire. Mary moves beneath the duvet, pressing what John knows is a wonderfully round, plush arse into Sherlock’s groin. Sherlock groans, a thready sound that pierces John’s chest. Mary gasps – Sherlock’s hand is squeezing gently, thumb plying the taut, hardened skin of her nipple.

“God,” she whispers. “He’s so hard, John.”

A sound escapes John, a tight, needy throat-sound, and he gives in to the urge to press wet, messy kisses to the side of her throat. Sherlock’s panting breaths waft over him, slightly sour. When he’s finished sucking a rather blatant mark onto Mary's neck, he turns and meets that open, willing mouth without a shred of hesitation.

God, Sherlock’s mouth. He’s a little inexperienced and sloppy, but his mouth is full and soft and so wet. So different from Mary, but both are so _good_. John growls and licks inside, tasting. There’s morning breath, yes, yeasty and a little stale; but also hints of toothpaste, and warm saliva, and Sherlock’s so fucking desperate John can taste it.

“Gorgeous,” he says, voice raw. He kisses along Sherlock’s jaw, molding his lips to the firm bone beneath porcelain skin. He draws back and meets Sherlock’s eyes. It’s hardly been five minutes and already he looks wrecked. They’re all three of them wrecked, and John knows now that they’ll never recover.

“John.” Mary reaches up for him, takes him down into her arms. He let her kiss him, shares the taste of Sherlock with her. When she pants for more, he pushes his thigh between hers and molds Sherlock’s hand harder against her breast until she moans.

John would be content to kiss and hold and grind against his – his what? His wife and his lover? – for a little while longer, but he can feel Mary drenching the dressing gown against his thigh, and her pulsing heat and musky scent is doing things to him. And to Sherlock, too, if the increasingly desperate rhythm is anything to go by. John’s mind stutters on that thought: his best friend is dry-humping his wife, and it’s fucking _amazing_. He groans and fumbles with the dressing gown.

“Get it off,” he rasps. “I want to see you.”

“Mmmm. I’m sure Sherlock does, too,” she murmurs. Her snark is muted only a little by the arousal that thickens her voice. She pulls forward, provoking a muted protest from Sherlock, and wriggles free of the encumbering blue silk. As John suspected, there’s a sizeable wet patch, and he holds it to his nose surreptitiously before chucking it over the side of the bed. Mary laughs, full-throated. “Come on then. How do you want us, love?”

John knows exactly how he wants them, but he’s afraid to ask. He doesn’t know what the boundaries are, if there even _are_ boundaries. He looks between Sherlock – flushed clear down under his shirt, ribs heaving, sweat curling his hair into corkscrews – and Mary, with her beautiful creamy skin marred by the occasional childhood scar, her modest bosom and full hips, and can hardly speak for the tightness of his throat.

“Together,” he manages at last. “You’re so beautiful together, please…”

Sherlock is nearly catatonic, but Mary at least has retained some sense of self. She smiles and brushes her hand over John’s face, kissing him slow and drugging. Then she kicks away the heavy duvet and climbs on top of Sherlock, settling herself over his hips. She’s as bare as the day she was born, but Sherlock is still at least partly dressed. Mary runs her hands beneath his shirt, bunching up the fabric, and between them she and John manage to slip it off his head. Sherlock’s hair is now a _complete_ wreck, but his body is beautiful: lean, muscled, surprisingly substantial for such a slight man. John can’t keep himself from stroking down one pectoral to his taut abdomen, and Sherlock shudders.

Mary cups that lean, leonine face in one hand. “All right?” she whispers, thumb against Sherlock’s lower lip. His piercing eyes regard them both in turn for a moment before he nods. Mary smiles and passes her fingers over the band of Sherlock’s briefs. “John, could you help me…?”

It’s hard to see against the dark fabric, but there’s a damp patch spreading where the plump head of Sherlock’s cock is pressing out from his body. John rubs his thumb lightly against the spot, just circling, feeling the heat and steely give of him, and Sherlock’s mouth drops open and his head flops back against the pillow. A breathy _fuck_ passes his lips.

“John,” Mary chides, laughing.

John swallows hard and grabs the fabric, rolling it down his hips until the full length of Sherlock’s prick springs free, heavy and full. His fingers tremble as they wrap around its heft. The size is generous, comparable to John’s own but a little longer, and uncut. The skin is soft and damp with sweat, and he can’t resist stroking a few times before pushing the waistband back beneath Sherlock’s sac.

“That’s it,” Mary murmurs. She lifts her hips, and John guides the dark head of Sherlock’s prick back and forth along her pussy. “ _Oh_.”

Sherlock’s fingers wrap like steel bands around John’s wrist. “ _Wait_. John, fuck – _condoms_ , what about – pregnancy, and, and _babies_ …” He trails off, looking horrified, and John and Mary burst into laughter as if on cue.

“I’ve got a coil, Sherlock,” Mary says, still giggling. “Thought you would have deduced that.”

Sherlock relaxes a little. “Oh, of course. Unplanned pregnancy with your first serious boyfriend, unexpected because the doctors told you you couldn’t have children, but the fetus was stillborn only twelve weeks in…” He trails off and looks at John, wincing. “Not good?”

“It’s fine,” Mary murmurs. She bends over and brushes their mouths together, a light, soothing kiss. John rests his hand on her lower back, trying to muddle his way through the surge of emotions. “John, love. I’m more than ready.”

John’s hand has gone slack around Sherlock’s prick. He shakes himself, kisses Mary on the cheek, and takes a firm grip, guiding the head up and back until Mary can sink down with a sigh. Her cunt presses against his hand, hot and wet, and he withdraws reluctantly, letting her seat herself until she’s flush with Sherlock’s pelvis.

“Good?” he inquires, genuinely curious.

“Mmm.” She shifts, smiling beatifically, and Sherlock lets out a strangled sound. “He’s longer than you are, John… god, that’s so strange.” She half-laughs to herself and lifts up before sinking down slowly, clearly feeling out all the ways Sherlock fills her. “It’s so different, I’m not used to… _ah_.”

John smiles wryly. “Should I be worried?”

“Oh, pish, darling.” She gasps. Sherlock’s fingers find her hips and fasten there, denting the skin slightly. “It’s just different. Both are good. _Ohgodyes_.”

Sherlock has found himself again, a little, and has pressed his hips up to meet hers. Mary’s head falls forward as they work out a rhythm, her hands braced on Sherlock’s torso. John wants to devour them both. “He’s hitting your G-spot, isn’t he,” he says, only a little jealous. Through some trick of nature, he can only get her sweet spot reliably when he enters her from behind.

She nods, eyes closed. Her lashes are dark sweeps against the vibrant color of her cheeks. “He’s got the perfect curve… oh, Jesus. _Fuck._ ”

Mary isn’t usually one for swearing, but it comes out in force during sex. John slides up hard against Sherlock’s side and tastes the sweat of his brow. Sherlock convulses, turns his head to seek out John’s mouth. John cups his jaw and kisses him slowly, deeply, while Sherlock falls apart between them.

“He’s close,” Mary sighs. She’s close, too; she’s got one hand bracing herself up on Sherlock’s chest, and the other between her legs, working in disjointed circles. Another, involuntary rhythm has seized Sherlock, and they watch as his abdomen contracts against his will. Sherlock buries his face in John’s neck.

“ _John_.”

John almost comes himself, the way Sherlock says his name like that, rough and whisper-quiet on the cusp of orgasm. Instead he reaches down and replaces Mary’s hand with his own.

He can tell when Sherlock comes: his entire body jerks, and the muscles of his abdomen are drawn taut and hard-lined as his hips judder of their own volition. Mary presses down, grinding in sharp, desperate circles, and John can feel her pulsing over his fingers. Heat sweeps over him. The scent of female orgasm fills his nose, and he wants to bury his face between her thighs.

But Mary has another idea. She’s off Sherlock and on John in a heartbeat, sliding onto him without pause and working herself on his cock. John’s vision whites out a bit and he gasps, “Have mercy,” in a strangled voice. Beside him, Sherlock’s laughter is low and lethargic.

“Roll over,” he requests, watching them from his pillow. “I want to watch him plow you.”

John wheezes again. “Are you trying to kill me? I mean, actively trying to… mmf!” He is muffled by Mary’s laughing kiss, and he bruises his lip on her teeth when they roll over, but he doesn’t mind.

John is embarrassed by how quickly he comes after that. Mary doesn’t usually come untouched in this position, but he alternates deep, fast thrusts with shallow grinding up against her clit, and with Sherlock sucking on her neck and his long, elegant fingers playing with his nipples, she finds her second orgasm fairly quickly. Nearly sobbing with relief, John tips over the edge and sprawls against her, the aftershocks pulsing through him for nearly a minute afterward.

Sherlock’s hand stroking along his spine brings him back around. He kisses Mary’s belly and slides away, collapsing into the sheets. But Sherlock has found his second wind. John watches them kiss for a little while, shockingly content to watch his wife swapping spit with another man. After a little practice, Sherlock is proving to be an amazing kisser, and they’re beautiful together. John doesn’t think he’ll ever get tired of it – and isn’t _that_ a thought?

“I’m afraid we haven’t been very gentlemanly,” Sherlock rumbles against her cheek. “Making you do all the work.” He’s propped above her on one elbow, and the other hand is caressing her breast as he nips at her lower lip. John has always figured Sherlock to be strictly men-only, if not outright asexual, but this obsessive tactility with Mary’s body is proving him wrong. It’s like he can’t keep his hands away – or his mouth. His kisses lead him southward, between Mary’s breasts – not sucking at the nipples, not now, she’s too far gone for gentility – placing pink half-moons down her belly with his teeth until he can rub his nose against the dark ginger of her pubic hair. He’s _smelling_ her, John realizes, and loving it.

Mary’s eyes are bright and black, glittering with amusement. “I’m sure you can make it up to me.”

Sherlock just hums, brushing the tip of his tongue along the pouting seam of her labia. With delicate precision, he settles between her spread thighs and opens her with his thumbs. His tongue wriggles slowly up and down, teasing at her clitoris, and when he outright ignores it to suck at her folds, Mary throws her head back and keens.

“Fuck,” John says, admiringly. He enjoys giving women head, but this is something else altogether. This is devotion beyond the call of duty. This is fucking worshiping at the altar of Mary Morstan. “You fucking love this, don’t you,” he murmurs, scraping his fingers through Sherlock’s unruly curls. “Jesus. You love eating pussy.”

Mary chokes. “You sound like a bad porn film,” she gasps, and then grabs for John’s hand as she cries out her orgasm. But Sherlock doesn’t stop – he shifts his weight and pushes four fingers into her all at once, sucking on her clit in earnest, and a fourth orgasm hits her almost immediately. His wife is shaking and sobbing in his arms and John wishes like all fuck he could get it up again if only because Sherlock deserves it after a performance like that.

“Enough,” Mary croaks, but Sherlock’s already easing off, pressing light kisses to her mons. His mouth is shiny and a few stray hairs curl obscenely on his lips. John thinks he hasn’t seen something so sexy since Mary dropped her negligee in the middle of the hotel room on their wedding night. He rests his head on her thigh, catching his breath.

John reaches for him, but – “Back in a moment,” Sherlock whispers. He slides off the bed and makes for the bathroom, staggering just a bit as he struggles out of his boxer briefs.

Mary sags in his arms. When John looks down, she’s smiling like she just won the sexual lottery – which, John supposes, she has – and her body is limp and warm and sweat-damp against his. The whole room smells violently of sex. “Go get him,” she whispers, turning to bump a kiss to his ribs. “Make sure he doesn’t run off.”

“I hope he doesn't. He’d be arrested for public indecency,” John says, earning a single, weary chortle. He kisses the top of her head and pads for the bathroom, swiping the abandoned dressing gown on his way.

“Sherlock?” He knocks a few times on the bathroom door, lightly. It’s open a crack, and he takes that as invitation. Inside, Sherlock is sitting on the closed toilet seat and leaning sideways against the wall, one hand working at his stiff prick. The other is stuffed into his mouth. His eyes flutter open as John walks in, and his hand works faster.

John goes to him and kneels at his feet, hands on his spread knees. Sherlock makes a noise and bites down on his knuckle, hard.

“Shhh. Look at you, you beautiful thing.” He drops a kiss to the top of Sherlock’s thigh. “Insatiable.”

Sherlock’s throat works, and his hand moves faster. When John takes the hand that’s in his mouth and brings it to his own instead, brushing soft, soothing kisses over the abused knuckles, Sherlock curls forward and whimpers. His prick seems to swell just a bit more, and John watches in abject fascination as the slit dilates and a thin, weak stream of semen drools from it to spatter on the tiles.

“John…” Sherlock’s voice is raw. He bends forward, and John lets him rest against his shoulder.

“All right then?” he asks softly.

After a moment, Sherlock nods. He draws in a shaking breath and nuzzles into John’s neck.

“We’re going to have to talk about this,” John whispers.

“Mm. Later.”

A smile pulls at John’s mouth. “Yes, all right. Later.” Reluctantly, he pulls away, and reaches for the loo roll. “Why’d you leave?” he asks as he wipes up Sherlock’s come from the floor.

Sherlock shrugs uncomfortably. “You were both… done. I didn’t want to presume.”

John pitches the soiled tissue paper into the bin and puts his hands on Sherlock’s knees, frowning up at him. “Sherlock. You have every right to ask things of us – and I don’t just mean sexual. You know I – you know either of us would move mountains for you.” He leans forward, capturing Sherlock’s downcast eyes. “We love you, Sherlock. Surely that’s obvious.”

“You’re… married,” Sherlock said stiffly. “I’ve been given to believe these things aren’t common fare for monogamous couples.”

John can’t help it – he laughs. When Sherlock’s face turns sour, he captures it between his hands and draws him down for a firm, swift kiss. “Sherlock, when have we ever been monogamous with you around? You demand our affection just by existing.” Using Sherlock’s body for support, he pulls himself to his feet. “Come on. Back to bed. I fancy a lie-in after last night.”

Sherlock is about to reply when the door is pushed completely open and Mary totters in. She breezes past them with a smile and steps into the shower stall. “Sorry to interrupt, boys, but I'm in need of a wash.” She closes the door behind her firmly and turns on the showerhead.

Over the hiss of the falling water, Sherlock stands and speaks through the frosted glass of the cubicle. “What’s your opinion, my dear?”

A considering hum. “Of your cunnilingus techniques? Perfection.”

Sherlock let out a frustrated growl. “No! Of this… _arrangement_.”

“Oh, darling.” She props the door open a crack, sprinkling Sherlock with a fine mist. “As long as John’s all right with it, it’s _all_ fine.”

Sherlock blinks at her, caught off guard. When he turns to John, it's to find him slumped against the wall, laughing. "You heard the lady," John wheezes. He reaches out and pulls Sherlock to him, standing on tip-toe to whisper in his ear. "Shall we join her?"


End file.
